


Play Your Part

by Skalidra



Series: Cultural Differences [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Beating, Gen, Gladiators, Imprisonment, Shiro's Missing Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 13:04:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7935700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the right decision to step into Matt's place in the gladiator arena. But when he defeats Myzax, and refuses to kill him, he sets a couple things in motion by mistake. One of these mistakes, is catching Emperor Zarkon's attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play Your Part

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This is part two of my Shiro's-time-in-captivity thoughts, about the weird inconsistencies left in our canon information. Hope you enjoy!

The crowd is screaming.

There's a fire in his blood, roaring in his chest, blanking out the pain of the scrapes and bruises littering his skin. His blade is to the throat of the gladiator beneath him, one foot pressed hard to the center of that massive chest, blood pooling beneath it from the slash he first used to knock the beast down. That damn orb weapon is lying in the dirt, out of reach of the massive hands, and the thing — is this a Galra? Is that the name of a species or a collection of species? An empire? — is glaring up at him.

He takes in a shallow breath, no deeper because his ribs _ache_ , and presses the blade a little firmer against the grey-purple skin of his downed opponent. It doesn't seem to affect the gladiator — Myzax, he's pretty sure — at all, only gets him to show a bit more teeth and snarl. He can't even hear it past the roar of the crowd.

He does hear it when Myzax growls, " _Finish_ it, slave."

It hits him in a sudden rush that he's expected to kill his opponent. He's really expected to cut this gladiator's throat and _that's_ going to be victory. The thought turns his stomach, and he glances up towards the crowd, hears the screams and finally registers them as screams for blood. For death. He's never— He's a pilot, he's an explorer, but he's _not_ a killer.

He raises the sword, then flips it and _strikes_. The flat of the curved blade at the end hits Myzax's head as hard as he can manage, snaps it to the side but doesn't draw blood. Myzax's eyes close, body going limp in unconsciousness as the impact reverberates up his arm. He grits his teeth and does it again, just to be sure the gladiator is really out and isn't going to beat him to a pulp when he turns his back.

Then he steps back, stares down at the blood and then, unable to stand the feeling of it on his arm, flings the blade down into the dirt. It takes a moment for him to realize that the arena is close to silent, and he looks up to find the mass of people watching him, murmuring among themselves but no more. Not until suddenly a mass of cheers breaks the silence and then the roar is back, almost louder. People are rising out of their seats, and the unease in his chest slips away, that rush of fire back in his veins.

Even despite everything, victory does feel good. He never thought— He was convinced he was going to die in here. A legendary gladiator, against him? He'd gotten through the Garrison's combat training — left over from when they were a more heavily military organization — like any other recruit, but he's hardly a master fighter. He's just— He was lucky. _So_ lucky. He should have died here.

He stares up at the crowd, slowly turning, until the guards show up to pull him away. He goes without struggle, not because he doesn't want to but because he knows it would be a mistake. He might have just won himself something past the whole 'slave' part of this, but fighting the guards might ruin that. Plus he's sore, he aches, his skin stings where it's been scraped open, and he's just… It's not going to work. Fighting the guards has never worked.

The metal hands around his arms are relentless, unforgiving, but he's learned to just keep pace and give in to wherever they want to take him. Out of the arena, through corridors where the guards' footsteps ring against the metal. He lets himself sink into a bit of a daze; trying not to feel the pain, or think too hard about what he's just done.

At least… At least Matt is safe. Or, safer. He'd _hated_ hurting the younger man, hated shouting at him, but it worked. Matt didn't have to go into the ring, he didn't have to fight, he didn't have to _die_. Wherever they'll send him now, it has to be better than that kind of suicide.

He hopes that he gets to see his crew members at least one more time, but he doesn't dare to actually wish for it. After the Druids interrogated him, pulling all the information about Earth and humans they could out of his head, and after all of the humiliating, vaguely torturous things that they've done to him since capturing them all on Kerberos, he's given up the idea that his life isn't just set on a permanent downhill course. Believing anything else is just asking to suffer.

He'll do whatever he can to make sure that Matt and Sam survive this, no matter what it costs him.

He snaps back to himself when the guards pull him the opposite direction of what he's expecting; definitely _not_ back towards the slave cells where he's been for… God, however long it's been since the Galra brought him back to… wherever he is. He's heard a few things about this being a central base, but not enough to know for sure what to call it. Even if he could, he wouldn't have a _clue_ where it is in relation to Earth.

That's… a terrifying thought, if he thinks about it for too long.

There's still no real choice but to go along with the guards, but he starts paying attention to where they're heading. As much as he can, when most of their corridors look the same except for the alien text printed on signs that he can't even begin to translate. He tries to commit what the lines look like to memory, but that's a losing battle. He's still not even sure how he understands their language; he's never been able to figure that out and it's not like it's been high on his list of questions to get answers for.

It's one of those things he just agrees to go with, because the alternative is that he wouldn't be able to understand them at all, and that sounds so much worse. At least this way he knows what they want from him, most of the time.

They go up an elevator for what feels like a very long time, which is not surprising considering the size he's pretty sure this place is. More corridors, but lighter in color this time, very few doors. Then, finally, there's a larger room. The guards pull him into it, through it, to a set of large — _enormous_ , by human standards — double doors that they push open, and pull him through.

He's not entirely sure what he was expecting beyond that door, but it's certainly not this room. This room is some kind of extremely lavish bedroom, and it's not that it's draped in fancy cloth or expensive-looking art, but just because it's _huge_. It's actually almost utilitarian. The colors are the same as the rest of this place, dark greys and purples, but there are huge windows that look out on space and the passage of ships, and the furniture itself is plain, if pretty comfortable looking. It looks military, sort of like the instructor's rooms back at the Garrison.

It takes him a couple seconds to see the Galra standing near the massive windows, when it shifts and turns towards them. The guards push him to his knees, as the Galra walks towards them with slow, confident strides. It isn't until the much bigger Galra gets closer that he realizes where he's seen that costume, that _face_.

Emperor _Zarkon_.

He feels his breath freeze in his lungs, and the guards let him go and step back but he stays on his knees, staring up. _This_ is the leader of all the Galra. Why is he—? Why is he here? What's happened? What's _about_ to happen?

"You defeated one of my finest gladiators today," Zarkon says, looking down at him with nearly glowing purple eyes and an expression that he can't decipher. "Not the best, but one of my better ones. Impressive, for a nothing slave."

He has no idea what to say, so he bites his tongue and stays silent.

"Stand," Zarkon orders, and he snaps to obey. His ribs ache at the sudden movement, and his breath catches, but he makes it up. A hand rises, gripping his chin in gauntleted fingers and pulling it up a few inches. "Do you know who I am, slave?"

"Emperor Zarkon," he answers, as soon as his tongue decides it can work. "I saw you on the screen when I was captured."

"Yes," Zarkon murmurs, "the little pleading one. I remember. You've come far, to be standing in front of me."

Since his first words didn't get him severely hurt, he swallows and dares to ask, "Why _am_ I here?"

Zarkon's fingers swipe over a graze on his cheek, the dirt ground into it from the arena floor. "You defeated my champion, little slave." The hand lets go of him, and Zarkon steps away and back towards the window. "I haven't read the Druids' report on your planet yet; do you have arenas there, slave?"

He thinks for a moment about wrestling, fighting tournaments, etcetera, and then realizes that none of it compares. Not really. "No," he answers. "Not for a long time."

"I didn't think so," is Zarkon's reply. Those purple eyes turn back to him. "So, you don't know what it means when a gladiator refuses to take the life of their opponent?"

Unease curls in his gut, and he swallows, only barely holding Zarkon's gaze. "No," he manages.

Zarkon gives a small, confirming hum of sound. "By refusing to kill an opponent, a gladiator sends the message that the opponent isn't worth their time. So little of a threat that the possibility of revenge doesn't matter." His breath catches as the pieces click together in his head, way too slow to do anything about it. "You, a nothing slave in his very first fight, defeated one of my best gladiators and told every bit of my empire watching that my gladiator wasn't worth his time. So, now you understand why you're here, slave."

"I— I didn't mean to—”

"Silence."

His mouth clicks back together, and he takes half a step back before he can control the reaction. A hand presses against the back of his shoulder, shoves him forward again. He almost falls.

"What you meant to do doesn't matter, little slave. You're a champion of my arena now, and you will play the part. You'll fight who you're told, do as you're told, and show loyalty to me and my empire." Zarkon turns fully back to him, eyes narrowing a bit. "You're mine now, slave. The next time you fight you'll show that to the public, and any rumors you might have stirred will be silent again. Clear?"

He chokes on words for a moment, and then nods and bows his head. It takes him another second to answer, "Yes. I understand."

Zarkon stares down at him for several long moments. When the emperor speaks, his voice is low and threatening. "You defeated a gladiator, but do not make the mistake of believing that means you equal one of my soldiers. Whether you live or die in your next match, you will never be the equal of any of them." Zarkon flicks one hand in an idle gesture. "Remind him of his place, then take him back to his cell."

He has enough time to jerk his head up, to suck in a breath, before a fist cracks into his low back. He shouts in pain, staggering forward, only to get wrenched back by a hand in his hair.

_Leave enough to grab_ , he thinks, in a hysterical moment.

He feels bone crack when a knee slams into his already bruised side, and gives a breathless cry at the feeling, falling sideways as much as the hand in his hair will allow. His feet are swept out from under him, and the guard holding his hair goes with him and _slams_ his head into the ground. His vision goes black for a precious second, and when he gets it back he's being hoisted back up, an ache in the center of his face that he's pretty sure is a broken nose. He can taste blood, can only breathe through his mouth, and the two guards are dragging him up with no regard for his uncooperative limbs or dizziness.

"Please," he gasps, hanging in their grips. "Please, don't—”

A hard blow to his not-as-injured side shuts him up.

Zarkon is watching him, gaze steady. "It's beneath a gladiator to beg for mercy; remember that." Another flick of that gauntleted hand.

The guards drop him to his knees, a moment before a foot hits his back and knocks him to the floor. He wants to protest, to shout, but he grits his teeth and just curls up instead, covering his head with his arms and trying to give as few good targets as possible. It doesn't help that much, not with at least one rib broken and the guards being stronger than normal humans, but there's nothing else he can do.

When they're done they drag him back up to his knees, one hand in his hair, and somehow Zarkon is there looking down at him.

"You are beneath the Galra, but you'll learn that, _Champion_. Take him away."

* * *

The prisoners that are in the same cell as him don't question that he comes back more injured than he was at the end of his match; he's almost positive they were still there when he defeated Myzax, they should know what he took in the fight.

He's dropped inside the cell and shut in with them, and all of them are whispering, looking at him with awed eyes. He's bloody, he hurts, but he's got enough strength left to get against a wall a little ways away from all of them and just curl up on himself, mouth open so he can breathe. Matt and Sam aren't here, which is a little worrying, but maybe… Maybe this cell is just for the slaves chosen to fight in the arena. In that case, it's _good_ they aren't here.

They'll have a better time of it somewhere else.

One of the other alien slaves sidles up next to him, eyes shining bright with something like hope. "You beat Myzax," the alien breathes, older-looking features lighting up for a moment. "You shamed him before all the subjects of the Galra empire."

"It wasn't—”

He cuts himself off, glances around the cell to find all of them watching him. The way they're looking at him, the way they _see_ him. His throat clenches up, and he hears Zarkon's voice echo in his head, whispering, ' _play the part_.' He doesn't think these prisoners even know his name, let alone who he really is, and they definitely don't know what he's like. How would any of them know if what he says or does is a lie?

He forces himself to lean back into the wall, raising his head and giving a crooked smirk that probably flashes bloody teeth. "It wasn't that hard."


End file.
